Entries categorized "Family"

...I get eye-to-eye (I think) with Katie Mexico and tell her that she has
to play by our rules, or she can’t play with Corrie anymore. Corrie
nods self-righteously, for emphasis. I give Katie’s head (I think) a
pat, and off the two friends go.

It feels like I should play a little funeral dirge behind that sentence. No swingset, after 12 years of living in a home with a swingset. Ours is gone.

I watched the disassembling from my perch on the back patio (where I sat wearing a JACKET in late August, by the way--if this is climate change, it's working for me just fine). I watched the boys handing tools to Hubs, while Corrie sang them show tunes (it was immensely helpful to them), and I coached myself: do not get sentimental, do not get sentimental. It's just a rusty old death trap that needed to come down before someone got launched over the neighbor's fence. Anyway, it would be nice for some grass to grow over there. This is purely practical--it is not some climactic harbinger of my sad, empty nest.

But because I find myself squarely in a midlife crisis at the moment, realizing that I'm just this close to not having a preschooler for the first time in 13 years--well, my raw emotions are turning non-events into events, every single day. Hubs knew this, and he called over his shoulder as he worked: "You sure you don't want to take a picture?"

"NO!" I yelled back, in all caps, "NO, BECAUSE THIS IS JUST NO BIG DEAL. REALLY. I MEAN, NO BIG DEAL AT ALL."

And then I think I may have stomped my foot.

But just before I let myself descend--yet again--into my swirly pot of self-pity that my babies are growing, I caught a look at my 8 year old, attempting to use one of the old swingset bars as a javolin. At the same time, the twelve year old was drawing up blueprints on how he could incorporate the swingset wreckage into a fort. The 10 year old picked up a garden house and started watering down the tiny sprigs of grass underneath where the swingset once lived.

They were moving on to better things. Repurposing.

It is precisely what they should do, just as it is precisely what I should do. The times, they are a-changin', and I can mourn their passing (and thus miss their passing), or I can look at what is to come. Even as I leave behind the Season Of the Swingset, I'm greeting a new season in its place. It's a season of deep conversations and belly laughs and hair gel and healthy grass and every member of my family cutting his own meat.

Hi, blog friends. I'm back. Or at least back-ish. It's been a long and strange several weeks: the normal madhouse of back-to-school chaos (including our first year of middle school), plus the frantic pace of a book deadline, plus the sudden death of my father-in-law. (And by the way, many thanks to those of you who sent such kind expressions of prayer and sympathy--that meant more than you know.) I'm not sure I've ever been sprinting in so many directions at once.

Case in point: I went to curriculum night at my kids' school a couple last week, dashing out the door after a full day of writing and a thrown-together meal of macaroni and cheese. I talked with all the teachers, and I had a nice chat with the PTA president and principal and several other parents. As I was leaving the school, I looked down to see that the entire evening I'd been wearing a giant, streaky blob of macaroni and cheese stuck to the front of my shirt.

NICE.

While I'm quick to kick myself for letting things get so chaotic, I don't want to miss the lessons in the mayhem. Times like this have a way of forcing me to focus on what's important: Turn off the computer and enjoy the cool evening. Love my husband. Check my shirt for wayward pasta. Live and learn.

The good news is that the book is going very well. We're almost to the halfway point, and we're so proud of what we've done so far. You TypePad users already know how many changes are taking place as the new version continue to get up and running, and we're writing this book to the new version of TypePad, not the old one. This has meant many, many hours of poking around in my dashboard, learning the new lay of the land (and, by the way, loving it. I don't always love change, but this new TypePad design has really grown on me.) If you're a new TypePad user (or you're an old one who is still getting up to speed on all the changes), I really think this book is going to be a great help. Sit tight--I'll tell you more about it soon.

In the meantime, I'll continue to be in and out here at my blog, until we hit our final deadline later this fall. OH, the irony that spending many hours a day writing a book on blogging doesn't leave any time for...um, blogging. Also, a quick note--I'm using my personal blog as a guinea pig for implementing some of the TypePad features I'm writing about. Hopefully the changes will be (mostly) unnoticeable to you, but if anything seems wonky, now you know why.

...I know, for example, that the rules matter. If I plan to hold my kids
to high standards in their online interactions (and I do), I need to
respect (and insist that my kids respect) the rules that are in place.
For example, Facebook says you can’t have an account until you’re 13.
Whether I agree with that or not is entirely irrelevant: it’s their
site. If I circumvent that and allow my 12 year old to lie about his
age to get an account, I’m telling him he only has to stick to the
rules he likes. I’d like to start this journey on firmer moral ground. {read more at Parenting.com}

Since we all know that repeating ourselves (and repeating
ourselves...and repeating ourselves...) is the name of the game in
parenting, we might as well as make it snazzy. Hubs and I seem to have
developed a treasure trove catch-phrases that we use over and over. If
you were to pop in to the Dryer house, this is what you'd likely
hear....

"Take what you get and don't throw a fit."

Every single mom
I've ever met uses this one. I think that when you're distracted by
the throes of labor, the hospital must inject it
directly into your brain.

"I am my brother's keeper."

My Hubs initiated this one with our boys--it's taken (very loosely)
from Scripture. He has given them numerous rousing speeches about the
virtues of brotherhood--really, you can almost hear the violins playing
the background. In moments of brotherly bickering Hubs has been known
to call out, "I am?...." and the boys chant back (sometimes through gritted teeth) "..my brother's keeper."

We're going to conveniently ignore that the Scripture
being referenced is, in fact, the story of one brother murdering
another. Though there are days when that seems all too relevant.

"Different is good."

We've
used this one with Adam since he was very little. He's not always the
best at adapting to change, and we've had to coax him off a few
figurative ledges by having him repeat with us, "Different is good."

I'm predicting this one will come back to bite us someday when Stephen (who most certainly does not have trouble deviating from the norm) comes home with purple hair and an nose-ring.

"See a need, fill a need."

We lifted this one straight from the movie Robots. Loosely translated, it's a nice way to say, "get your duff off the couch and feed the dog without being asked. Please."

"If you're gonna play rough, you've gotta be tough."

A
friend taught us this one, and we happily pull it out when there is
tackle football going on in the living room. It's basically a
new-and-improved version of "it's all fun and games until somebody gets
hurt," or "Don't come cryin' to me!"

"Blood, barf, bones or bad guys?"

This is my favorite one. Sometimes, a momma needs the older kids to prioritize their needs before interrupting. "Don't come in here unless it's an emergency" wasn't working for my brood, because they think a misplaced Nerf ball is reason enough to call in the Special Forces.

So, I got a little more specific. When I need a few
minutes of alone-time to accomplish something, the kids know to
interrupt me ONLY if they see blood, vomit, a bone sticking out
somewhere or a villain scaling the side of our house.

And really, it just warms this momma's heart to picture
them sitting around living room after my funeral someday, reminiscing
about their sweet mother, and they will chant, "blood, barf, bones or
bad guys," and OH, how their hearts will be warmed.

I'm
turning this over to you all now. I KNOW you're bound to have some
good catch-phrases you use repeatedly with your kids--let's hear them.

I sat on the second row of a darkened
old theater and watched my boy, my oldest boy, that boy who emerged
from me 11 years ago and made me a mother. I watched in him in awe, as
he pulled from reserves I did not know he had, to do something I did
not know he could do. He did it with abandon and confidence and joy,
and I watched him, reluctant tears flowing down my cheeks ("Do not cry, do not cry," I told myself, "11-year-old boys do not like it when their mothers cry").

But I did cry, sitting there mercifully cloaked in the dark, and I was overcome with the idea that he's not mine anymore. Not really,
not the way he was when he fit in the crook of my arm. Every day he is
stepping further down this road to being entirely his own person, doing
things I did not teach him, excelling in things I cannot do. It is
astounding.

At the end, when the crowd roared, I shouted along with them:
"Bravo! Bravo!" The words jumped out of me, barreling awkwardly past
the lump in my throat.

But in my heart, the words were quieter: Bravo, my son, they whispered. Bravo
to you for finding what you love, and for doing it well. Bravo to you
for stepping gradually but surely away from your dad and me, making
your own way in this world, standing bravely on the edge of what's
ahead and jumping in headlong.

Part of me wanted to whisper these thoughts to him, and to remind
him that as he runs forward, we'll still be here to catch him when he
falls. For surely, someday, he will fall, and certainly, someday, we
will catch him.

But this is not the night for such words. There was no falling
tonight. There was no need for a safety net or a back-up plan. It was
a night for his star to shine so brightly that it cast light on the
path in front of him. He knows just where he's going now.

It's a funny thing, how a kid can grow up light years in just one evening.

When I was a teenager, my dad was strict. He was, I would’ve told you
back then, unreasonable, over-protective and stubborn, and I would’ve
rolled my eyes to illustrate my point. (Seeing as how those same eyes
were thickly be-decked with Clairol Electric Blue Mascara, my moral
authority should have been taken with a grain of salt...) {read more at Parenting.com}

Tonight is our last night in California. I am pleased to report we are nestled safely in a San Diego hotel room and we are not, in fact, trapped in the bottom of the San Andreas Fault. (You know what's funny? The whole time we've been here, when I've chatted with store clerks or people on the bus, and the fact that I'm from Oklahoma enters the conversation, they all say the same thing: "OKLAHOMA? Oh, do you get lots of tornadoes? I could NEVER live in Oklahoma!" I feel strangely vindicated to know that my irrational fear of natural disasters may be universal after all.)

It has been such a remarkable trip--one of our best, I'd say. In addition to all the fascinating things we saw on our first couple of days, we've now added Disneyland to the list. We felt like my daughter would love it; at four and a half, she's old enough to articulate her enjoyment, but young enough to believe in all the magic she would see at the park. At least, I hoped she was, and our first meeting with Princess Ariel put any of my doubts to rest. Corrie grabbed both Ariel's hands and, eyes wide and sympathetic, she said, "I SAW your SHOW with the {dramatic pause} SEA WITCH." And that sweet Ariel just jumped right in and talked all about it with my girl, assuring her that yes, Ursula was very scary, but she's doing better now.

My boys rode every roller coaster in both parks, some of them without us, because I prefer to avoid barfing on my vacations, thank you very much. Everyone found at least one ridiculously-overpriced very sentimental souvenir to take home. We did the two parks in two (very full) days. It was probably enough, though I suspect we could've gone on longer. We all agreed that we'd see what we could, and not worry about the rest. It kept expectations realistic(-ish). We missed Pirates of the Caribbean and Peter Pan's Flight, but the guys did Thunder Mountain Railroad twice. Corrie and I rode King Arthur's Merry-Go-Round (or, as Corrie calls it, the "miracle round") a whopping FIVE times. The family favorite was Soarin', just as it was when we did Disney World a few years ago. It's a can't-miss attraction.

On our last night in LA, we stood at the base of Sleeping Beauty's castle for the incomparable Disney fireworks show. To the utter joy of my daughter we got to see Tinkerbell fly in and light the castle. It was jaw-dropping. And Corrie, being my animated little chatter-bug, felt the need to call play-by-play game analysis of the whole thing: "LOOK! SHE'S COMING IN! I CAN'T BELIEVE SHE'S REALLY FLYING. HOW IS SHE FLYING? MOMMA, IS THAT REAL? I THINK IT'S REAL. OH, LOOK, SHE'S FLYING AWAY. WHERE IS SHE GOING, MOMMA? I THINK SHE PROBABLY HAD TO GO GET MORE PIXIE DUST." Her thrills over the whole thing filled my heart up so full, I still feel a little glowy.

So we ended up here, in San Diego, where we've spent a couple of quiet days. There's tons to do here, but we've mostly been lying low. We visited the seal habitat at La Jolla Cove, and then we did a little of this:

We walked the shops and restaurants of Seaport Village (positively charming!), and then we did this:

We drove around downtown and saw the colorful happenings at ComicCon. We had a good laugh, and then I did this:

It's a hard job, but I tried to do it well.

Tomorrow we head home, and I'd appreciate your prayers for safe and peaceful travel. Because you know what's between California and Oklahoma? It's a whole lot of FLAT. Just flat, flat, flat. Which is great for driving, but not so great for the cheerfulness factor of four children who would like to look at something other than all the FLAT. Perhaps I should prepare a two-hour lecture on the socio-economic history of the American prairie? I'm sure that would cheer them right up.

Watched my husband have way too much fun navigating the LA freeways while alternately humming the CHiPs theme song and reciting, "THIS IS A.C. AND I HAVE O.J. IN THE CAR."

Saw the former homes of Charlie Chaplin, Clark Gable and Gene Kelly.

Thought many thankful thoughts about the cost of real estate and gasoline in Oklahoma.

Watched my sons body surf in the Pacific Ocean.

Saw a store which, according to a sign in its window, sells underpants for squirrels.

Put my hands in Julie Andrews' handprints at the Walk Of Fame.

Drove past a lights-flashing, guns-pulled arrest scene...twice.

Felt an earthquake. Okay, not really; it was actually just the air conditioner coming on. But for a second there, it was dicey.

Saw the actual Hotel California, and there was not, in fact, plenty of room. (It's kind of crowded here.)

Sat on a boardwalk and ate frozen, chocolate-covered cheesecake on a stick while my children downed some salt-water taffy (and realized that most of our best family vacation memories seem to involve dessert).

Got stuck in a traffic jam on a nine-lane freeway behind a lavendar suburban.

Drove past a packed Sunday-morning crowd at the Fellowship Of Self-Actualization.

In other words, we're not in Oklahoma anymore. But we're having a ball.

I saw the Grand Canyon yesterday, and none of my children fell over the edge, which is a good measure of a successful day at the Canyon, I'd say. The real measure of a day at the Canyon, in which I try to put into words what I saw--well, that eludes me. For centuries, people have tried to capture that spectacle in words, photos or paintings, and for centures, they have fallen short. I'm not sure I'm qualified even to try.

For starters, we saw this:

And this:

My oldest son became pensive, remarking that standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon makes you realize how small you are. My youngest son coped with the philosophical enormity of that observation by hocking a loogie over the edge. My four-year-old daughter seemed unable to take it all in (she asked us which of the Disney Princesses we could expect to find there). I think she thought she was looking at a giant painting, a feeling I can certainly understand. I felt as if I stood at a masterpiece in the finest museum, my jaw hanging open at the creativity of an Artist who wields a river as a paintbrush.

We stayed long enough to watch sunset, a spectacle we'd been told we didn't want to miss. Though the crowds had thinned through the late afternoon, a large gathering had assembled at the recommended lookout. Several brave souls sat right at the edge, their hiking shoes dangling over the precipice. There was a rumble of friendly conversation all around us, much of it in French, Japanese, Spanish and German.

The sun began its final disappearing act, lowering to touch the western edge of the canyon. The conversation around us slowly quieted. We all watched the vanishing sun, vaguely recalling our mothers' warnings that we'd burn our eyes, but how could we look away?

The sun turned very quickly into a semi-circle on the horizon. A last, giant burst of orange and purple exploded across the canyon walls to the east. A few people gasped. My sons began a countdown: "eight...seven...six...five..."

Cameras clicked.

"Down, down, down," my daughter whispered. There was just a sliver left.

"...three...two...one..."

And then it was gone. The dusty, sunburned, multi-lingual crowd spontaneously erupted into applause, the sound of our claps disappearing instantly into the depths around us. It was such a small thing to do, to clap for the sun and the Canyon, two giant forces so much bigger than any of us, and entirely out of our control. But we did it anyway. I guess there's just something in us that needs to say thank you.

Every now and then, motherhood serves you up one of those
days. The days that beat you to a pulp--before breakfast. The days
that make you wonder if you should be saving for college....or reform
school.

I'm kidding.

Sort of.

It was just a really hard week last week. And I crawled into the
weekend, my heart bruised and my spirit a little bloodied. It wasn't
pretty. I wept, and I doubted, and I was mad at my little Offender
who, so help me, still makes my heart sing with his crooked smile. I
lay in my bed and cried, and I begged God for something--anything--to
redeem this ugly day we'd had.

1 To you I call, O LORD my Rock; do not turn a deaf ear to me. For if you remain silent, I will be like those who have gone down to the pit.

2 Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help, as I lift up my hands toward your Most Holy Place.

4 Repay them for their deeds and for their evil work; repay them for what their hands have done and bring back upon them what they deserve.

6 Praise be to the LORD, for he has heard my cry for mercy.

7 The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped. My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to him in song.

9 Save your people and bless your inheritance; be their shepherd and carry them forever.

"The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped." These are just the words of peace I needed to hear.

Also? "Repay them for what their hands have done and bring back upon them what they deserve." If I'm not mistaken, I think that's a Biblical way to say, "I HOPE YOU HAVE A CHILD JUST LIKE YOU SOMEDAY."

Oh, yes. I'm defininitely feeling better now.

I'm thinking these thoughts, laughing through my tears,
when The Offender comes into my room and hops up in my bed. He can't
sleep. He tells me what's on his mind, and I listen. And at one point
in our conversation I tell him, "you know, you just can't always trust
girls. Believe me. I used to be one."

Used to be?

The joke hung in the air for just a minute until it washed
over us both. We laughed together, and he leaned in to nudge me with
his shoulder. I placed my hand on the top of his head. The rumbles of
laughter silenced, and we sat there together, a cheeky pre-teen boy and
his over-wrought mother. It was a good silence, the kind that patches
up the holes we'd left in each other's hearts that day.

We're leaving soon on our vacation to Southern California. My husband is an expert trip planner, but I think even he would admit that this one snuck up on him. I know, it should technically be "sneaked up on him". But "sneaked" sounds awkward, and so I say "snuck", but I have to clarify that I use it knowingly in case I die in a California earthquake and one of my last blog posts on record contained an improperly conjugated verb, because I cannot leave that kind of legacy.

But back to my point: this trip came out of nowhere. We've had it on our calendar for months, but life has been unusually fast-paced lately. I'm not feeling as prepared as I normally do when we forge ahead on a big trip. Also, all our other big vacations have been in parts of the country we know. We don't know a thing about California. We red-staters tend to think of California as That Big Giant Place With The Earthquakes And All The Blondes And Smog And Crazy Real Estate Prices And Movies Which Chip Away At Our Nation's Moral Fabric. It's a bit of a mystery.

Here's what I do know:

We're driving from Oklahoma to Los Angeles. It's a long drive (about 21 hours each way), but it's a simple one:

We'll need to make excellent time on our way out there (the fact that I just wrote that sentence means that we are now certain to face motion sickness, bladder issues, and car trouble). We're attending a specific sporting event that has my husband and sons enthralled to the point of packing face paint. We'll be moving quickly on the way out there, but once we arrive, we plan to slow our pace. We'll go watch the mega sporting event, and then we'll spend a day or two relaxing on the beach. We won't even try to resist the gravitational pull of Disneyland, spending a couple of days there in the middle in our trip. I suspect that the day my four-year-old daughter meets Sleeping Beauty may henceforth be known in family lore as The Shriek Heard 'Round the World.

We plan to do the Hollywood thing, visiting Grauman's Chinese Theatre, the Walk of Fame and maybe a studio tour. And we'll do it all while dodging all the collapsing buildings, a result of The Big One, which, it appears, shall surely occur during the week my family visits the West Coast.

(Have I mentioned my irrational fear of earthquakes? It's crazy, I know, especially considering that I've been known to stand on the front porch during a tornado. But I'd rather face swirly, deathly clouds over swirly, deathly soil any day. I'm afraid I may have seen too many bad 1970's disaster flicks. As a result, I'd prefer not to sleep anywhere near the San Andreas Fault, nor will I board a giant ship with Shelly Winters.)

And now, ten paragraphs later, the point of this post. While we have the general skeleton of the trip planned, we may be winging it on a few details. I'm hoping there's a SoCal expert or two out there who might be willing to weigh in on a few questions I still have. Namely:

1. Is two days enough for Disneyland and California Adventure? What are your favorite, can't-miss rides and attractions there?

2. In an effort not to squeeze in too much, we're skipping San Diego. Is that foolish? Is San Diego so excellent that it's worth a little calendar-squeezing?

3. What's your favorite LA-area beach for a family to visit?

4. Are any of the Hollywood studio tours especially great for kids? Most of the ones we've found don't allow kids under age 8, which rules us out. Are you aware of any exceptions?

Any expert advice you could give would be much appreciated. In the meantime, I'll be waiting right here, making my list for the house-sitters, finishing up the laundry, and shopping for earthquake-resistant helmets for the kids.

My nerves are on edge when we arrive, if I'm being honest. I tend to let our pathological inability to remember to bring enough beach towels convince me of my unfitness as a mother. But the day is sunny and we are here now, and the swimming pool is no place for issues (at least, not for those of us on either side of puberty).

We do our ritual sunscreen coating; it's an exercise in futility, if the brown shoulders I rub are any indication.

The dull splish of hundred stray splashes almost drowns out the radio over the loudspeakers. It's Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam (flashback!), and I sing along. The ten year old notices, and it's clear he doesn't know whether to be embarrassed or impressed.

The eight year old wanders off to the snack bar, his dollar bill burning a hole in the Ziploc baggie in the beach bag. He comes back sucking a giant blue Ring Pop. His grin is satisfied, snaggle-toothed and, now, completely blue. He shows me the slobbery mess and tells me that he'll buy me a real ring just like it, someday, when he's a famous soccer player.

The younger kids lure me into the water. The heat index is well over 100, yet the water, impossibly, is 18 degrees. I feel very old; the kids easily maneuver, completely relaxed, while my cold muscles fight off shock.

In one of those moments that can't be explained, the four year old suddenly finds her courage. Yesterday she was in floaties, today she's doing back flips underwater. She surfaces with a proud and watery grin. She glows at my praise; she glows even more at her big brother's praise.

I climb back out and dry off, noticing that our (one) beach towel smells like a curious blend of fabric softener and chlorine.

The younger kids climb in and out, wearing a trail between the water, the snack bar, the bathrooms, and my lounge chair, where they visit often for my help in the arbitration of many diving-ring-related disputes. The ten year old engineers a game of Marco Polo with an impressively large crowd. The eight year old masters the diving board, getting nervier with every jump. The youngest dashes over to the kiddie pool and smugly reminds her brothers they're too big to join her. The oldest finds a lounge chair of his own, at a distance suitable for his twelve-ishness. I smile at him, but only occasionally, and with low expectations. He smiles back. That's enough for me.

I sit and watch the four of them, wishing I had four sets of eyes--and an unlimited summer--to take it all in.

...It was at this point that I reminded him that it’s a family vacation and not a CIA mission. He laughed good-naturedly, but then he mumbled something about synchronizing our watches... {read more at Parenting.com}